


Ecifircas

by thethingsunsaid



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-29
Updated: 2013-12-29
Packaged: 2018-01-06 16:06:32
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,202
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1108841
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thethingsunsaid/pseuds/thethingsunsaid
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What Dumbledore really saw in the Mirror of Erised</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ecifircas

**Author's Note:**

> This was written about a year ago - finally got round to posting it. Unbeta-d , and the first thing I've ever had the temerity to post online, so feedback is appreciated.
> 
> Disclaimer: Harry Potter, all the characters and all the spoken text belong to J.K Rowling

I find the boy crouched once more in front of the Mirror. Hardly surprising really. It is not hard to guess what he sees, what draws him back here night after night to sit and stare. A loving family. A past. A future. All of the things I and the world have denied him. 

But denied they have been, and a mirror is no substitute. It is time to put a stop to this."Back again, Harry?" I say. 

The poor lad nearly jumps out of his skin. "I-I didn't see you, Sir" he stammers.

I do my best not to laugh; luckily I've had a lot of practice. "Strange, how nearsighted being invisible can make you." I remark.  
I come down to sit beside him. It is always best to address the young on their own level, and besides, the desk was most uncomfortable."So, you, like hundreds before you, have discovered the delights of the Mirror of Erised."

"I didn't know it was called that, Sir." he says.

He's a good lad, but not as bright as he could be. Still, he has the Granger girl for that, I suppose. "But I expect you've realized by now what it does?" I prompt him.

"It -- well -- it shows me my family --"

"And it showed your friend Ron himself as head boy." I hint. Poor lad. He looks as if I've just announced I can grow two heads. 

"How did you know --?" 

"I don't need a cloak to become invisible," I remind him. "Now, can you think what the Mirror of Erised shows us all?"  
He shakes his head mutely. I know he's capable of working this out.

"Let me explain. The happiest man on earth would be able to use the Mirror of Erised like a normal mirror, that is, he would look into it and see himself exactly as he is. Does that help?" I offer him. His brow wrinkles, and then I see it clicking into place.

"It shows us what we want..." he says slowly, "whatever we want..."

"Yes and no," I tell him quietly. "It shows us nothing more or less than the deepest, most desperate desire of our hearts. You, who have never known your family, see them standing around you. Ronald Weasley,who has always been overshadowed by his brothers, sees himself standing alone, the best of all of them. However, this mirror will give us neither knowledge or truth. Men have wasted away before it, entranced by what they have seen, or been driven mad, not knowing if what it shows is real or even possible.

"The Mirror will be moved to a new home tomorrow, Harry, and I ask you not to go looking for it again. If you ever do run across it, you will now be prepared. It does not do to dwell on dreams and forget to live, remember that. Now, why don't you put that admirable cloak back on and get off to bed?" 

He stands up. He's tired - the past few nights have taken their toll. But he has learned, and I hope that knowledge will be worth the price.

He turns to me. 

"Sir — Professor Dumbledore? Can I ask you something?"

I smile at him. "Obviously, you've just done so.You may ask me one more thing, however." 

"What do you see when you look in the mirror?" he bursts out. 

I gaze into the mirror for a long moment, at the faces smiling and laughing and waving. I am used to them now and they bring only the weariness of old familiarity. 

"I? I see myself holding a pair of thick, woollen socks."

He stares at me, confounded. "One can never have enough socks," I expound. "Another Christmas has come and gone and I didn't get a pair. People will insist on giving me books."

He looks at me with mild awe and the unswerving faith of the young. To him I must seem immeasurably ancient, in full possession of all the world's answers. It does not even occur to him to doubt me. I send him off to bed. He should spend the time he has living and laughing, not dwelling in a world of might-have-beens. 

After he has gone, I look back at the mirror. When it was first brought to Hogwarts, I was curious as to what I would see. Proof that Voldemort was finally defeated, perhaps. A Wizarding World of the future, where Harry will grow up and have children, never worrying about war and prophecies.

Foolish old man. 

I forgot that the ways of the heart run deep, holding on to things long after we think they are dead and buried.  
In the mirror, my sister smiles and waves at me. She is not Ariana as I last saw her, pale and still, going on that last journey into the cold ground. Nor is she the Ariana I knew as child, fragile and unstable. This is my sister as she could have been, in a future that never happened. Matronly and soft around the edges, her girlishness ripened into a rich vivacity she never had the chance to possess. And beside her, he stands, lounging against the frame in the way he always did, as if he could not quite be bothered with all that standing-up-straight business. He is not the man I remember either. This Gellert is older, silver brindling his hair. His face is scholarly and sharp, as if he is engaged in some interesting discussion. The lines that I remember, of tiredness and cruelty (and defeat and defiance and despair) are wiped clear in this other face. Only laughter-lines and crows-feet remain. I wonder what he looks like now. It is over fifty years since the last time we met. (Has it really been that long?) He is an old man. Fifty years, locked in one small room in the prison he created. In all probability, he is mad, driven insane by the solitude and the passing of years. Perhaps I should have remembered him, written him letters. 

But I wanted only to forget, to bury myself in work and teaching. I did not want to think of days under the apple trees, and things I could not change. And then there was a new war and another dark lord, and more sacrifices.  
Do I do the right thing? I do not know. I am old and full of doubt. I know only that I try. Tomorrow, I will send the mirror to a new home, where it cannot entrance Harry or the other students here. 

He is a good boy, Harry Potter. He is brave and idealistic, with all his eleven years of knowledge about the world. So many have died already that should have lived long and happy lives. 

I remember another boy, brilliant and idealistic and filled with all the righteousness of youth. I remember his face, twisted in hatred as I cut him down in battle. 

I do not want to sacrifice Harry. I will give him as long as I can, to live out the little childhood he has. But in the end, I will do what I must. 

For the greater good.


End file.
